


Golden Hour

by motelsamndean (eacc22)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, samdean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 16:17:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eacc22/pseuds/motelsamndean
Summary: Sam inspects Dean while he's sleeping, all he sees is a field of gold.





	Golden Hour

Sam always woke up with his heart in his throat. He wished for the same two things every time he opened his eyes: that Dad had already left for the day, and that Dean had gotten too hot in the night. Nothing excited Sam more than the realization that his underarms and the back of his neck were wet with perspiration when he awoke. There’s only one reason why Sam loved these things. And it was all about Dean.  
Here’s the thing – when Dean got too hot at night he would splay wide like a hungry starfish. Limbs at the four corners of the bed as if they were bound there by thick twine (they weren’t), like his freckles were standing up and reaching out of his skin into the air (they weren’t), like every muscle was aching for Sam’s isolated attention and splaying as far from each other as possible (they were). Dean’s stomach would be pressed firm into the stiff mattress, his back delightfully arched, his mouth lolling against the flat worn in pillow, nestled atop a small pool of saliva.  
Yes, these were the mornings that Sam dreamed of. They didn’t come often. They were in the north more than the south these days, something about a werewolf pack spreading Dad had said. And before that it was a string of wild west settler ghosts, and before that something almost on the verge of Canada. When Sam woke on those mornings, face tucked deep into the polyester sheets and synthetic down of his superstore duvet, he wasn’t excited. Not like he was this morning, when last night Dad had hauled them east right into a heat wave.  
Right now they were just outside the small town of Summersville in the even smaller town of Persinger smack dab in the middle of West Virginia. But they weren’t out here for Roanoke or the Flatwoods monster. There was something in Summersville Lake. And it had Dad skittish enough that he drove for a few miles out of town until he found the closest motel. And oh boy – was Summersville living up to its name. It was late July and sweltering sticky heat, with mosquitos out in full force and Sam’s fingers felt sticky from sweat and half-melted popsicles.  
And this morning he woke up with a pool of sweat in his lower back. He could feel the thick droplets slide over his hip and into his navel when he rolled to face Dean. Sam’s face was pressed into his pillow and his mane of hair blocked the view of most of the room but he was lucid enough and could see enough to come to two conclusions.  
Dad: gone. Dean: splayed.  
Sam almost shook with giddiness at the sight of his brother’s long, lean body. Even though he was sprouting up inch by inch every few months Dean’s body always looked older. Only a few more inches and they’d be nose to nose. Sam thought in a few decades, even in their thirties, Dean’s body would still look more mature, even when they were grown men. He didn’t know if it was something he wanted, or something he feared. But right now he salivated at the thought of being able to just observe it.  
Dean’s hips were wrapped tight with the sheet he had fallen asleep under, and it was tangled between his legs and still snuggly tucked into the end of the bed. His whole upper body was exposed. Sam rarely got morning this good. So much of his brother was on display, he could count Dean’s freckles across his broadening shoulders if he wished. But there was something else he loved to do even more on mornings like this.  
Sam crept on hunter’s feet towards the single box window, and with gentle hands he drew the windows open. This was a skill with years of experience. Too fast and it would startle his brother awake, too slow and Dean would wake up in the half hour it took Sam to open the blinds. Given that almost all motel windows were roughly the same size, on average it took Sam nine minutes to open the blinds, give or take a few for blatant staring. As Sam inched the curtains open with hand over hand he kept his eyes both on Dean’s rising and falling back and on the individual plastic components of the blinds, his eyes sharp for too much movement from either party.  
When this was done, he returned to Dean’s bedside. He could feel the stiff carpeting underneath of his toes, hyperaware of every sensation. He knelt down onto the floor, could hear his knees chafing against the fibers as he situated himself. Sam crossed his arms and lay his head in the crease of his elbow. And stared.  
At this low angle Dean’s body was on fire. Each fine hair over his back and shoulders was glowing in the morning sunlight as the rays shone in from the splotched window and passed through the fine strands. He was glowing. Like a scattering of light from crystals, Dean’s hairs made the smallest rainbows against his skin. The dampness that each strand held was enough to cast a plethora of colors against his bronzed skin. Even though the rays had passed through hazy July sky, motel parking lot dust, and a hastily cleaned window they still came through Dean’s fine hairs as if this was their sole mission. To ignite his back in a field of gold.  
It brought tears to Sam’s eyes. But he wiped them away against his forearm, moments like this didn’t come that often. He needed to stare so hard it would burn into his retinas and be a flash against his eyelids every time he blinked. He loved Dean like this – and he couldn’t get enough.  
The glistening of his brother’s skin ebbed and flowed with his muscles. The bunching up near his shoulders was in shadow, and only the tips of the downy hair there caught the sunlight. His spine was relaxed, hips open, and the hair there crisscrossed against itself, a briar patch of featherlight rainbows. Dean’s ribs were a railroad track of light and shadow, especially in the small patch underneath of his pectoral, where they stood out so prominently Sam feared a hound would be able to snatch onto the bone with ease. Of course, this part of his body was away from the sunlight, but it was one of Sam’s favorite spots, and was so alluring it deserved its own few minutes of attention.  
Dean shifted then, and the landscape changed. Sam had to start all over again in his analysis. He could feel his knees protesting against what used to be carpet but was now just pressed down threads. He could feel the thickness in his briefs that told him how long he had been staring at his brother. He could feel his heart pounding and his hair standing on end. Like fight or flight, Sam’s whole body was engaged. But he knew it was too late to fight this, too late to run from it.  
Dean shifted again, and Sam knew his few minutes were disappearing. He stood, towered over his sleeping brother. He could see Dean’s body underneath of the sheet here, and he could see the thin layer of sweat that covered his brother’s whole body. It wasn’t quite like looking the hairs straight on and watching the sun pass through them. Not quite. But Sam got these latter moments more often than the former, and he still cherished them. He pressed calloused fingertips against Dean’s bare shoulder, let them rest there for a moment before giving Dean a gentle shove.  
He woke with a start, saw Sam over him and grumbled lightly before tossing onto his side. He would feign sleep for a few seconds and then lope lazily into the washroom. Sam knew this. Knew Dean’s routines better than his own. Sam knew a lot of things. He had always read that golden hour was right before the sun set in the evening, but he was pretty sure – for once in his short life – that the books had got it wrong, because this was the most golden his life ever looked.


End file.
